So cried the herald; and when no intention was manifested of delivering up the Lady Agnes to him, he blew another great blast, and rode down the steep to leave Baron Ulrich and his merry men clear at their wits’ last end.
No one could doubt that the extermination of Maid Agnes’s escort had been incomplete. Some one had escaped and told Graf Ludwig. The lion was unchained in very deed! In the great feasting hall the council met, but there was no wassail now. Ulrich’s scarred face was black with rage and dread. Priest Clement had nearly forgotten his scraps of Latin. The situation was plain enough. All through the wild and wicked years following the death of Frederick the Second, Thuringia had belonged to the bandit barons who had watched the roads and ruled by “fist-law.” The power of the Landgraf had sunk to a shadow, and Ulrich and his crew had held the Wartburg for a decade. But there was a new kaiser now who had begun to end the merry dance of devils. Rumours blew north,—how in Swabia Kaiser Rudolf had beaten down castles and hanged many a reckless “ritter” on the pine tree facing his own smoking keep. And Graf Ludwig, the Imperial Vicar, had come to Thuringia with a goodly force to do the very same deeds; therefore My Lord Ulrich had his food for thought.
“How many men will the Graf bring?” he was asking.
“I have heard said,” quoth Michael, sullenly, “he has more than two thousand, with battering mangonels, likewise a band of English longbowmen who came with Duke Richard of Cornwall and remained. No crossbows can match their archery.”
“And we have an hundred and twenty dogs at most, and the Wartburg, though strong, has a vast circuit to defend. If cleared of this plight, I vow Saint Moritz of Coburg a chalice of heavy gold! Is that overdear for the worthy saint’s aid—eh! Clement?”
Ulrich leered at the priest, and the holy man twisted his nose, while meditating. “A pious vow, noble Baron, a very pious vow! Nevertheless,—humph!—what did you say? How long did you think we could make good the castle?”
“Two days at most,” snarled Michael, crossly.
“Two days, and then to heaven!” ran on Clement; “will the ladder be axe, sword, or rope? Ah! Gratias Deo,—a thought!”
“What?”
“That the wench Agnes is still with the hermit. It is wrong to outrage a saint sed necessitas non habet legem; and we can also add a trifle to the weight of the chalice. In brief, seize her from the hermit, hold her hostage; and when the Graf comes, force him to promise us at least our lives in exchange for her safety.”